


Epidemic

by Peeta4Ever



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Pre-Apocalypse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peeta4Ever/pseuds/Peeta4Ever
Summary: The 74th hunger games are canceled, but only in district 12. Will Peeta and Katniss still find each other?
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I already have 2 different fics on the go in two different fandoms but I couldn't help myself!

District 12 makes Hunger Games history when no tributes are called for the 74th annual games. 

Effie Trinket never even so much as sets foot in the district that year. 

A plague of epic proportions has descended upon my home. Targeting at random with its sudden bloom of red and purple bruising under the skin; blood seeping into organs and airways until one asphyxiates to death.

‘Drowning in blood from the inside out’ is how Prim explains it to me.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it’ my mother confirms with an uncharacteristic scowl. Only in the history books of the Dark Days before the revolt on the Capital had humanity seen anything of its likeness. 

An ‘epidemic’ is what the President dispassionately calls it on a mandatory broadcast, three months after the first wave of outbreak. Not wanting to risk spreading to the rest of Panem, District 12 is ordered into quarantine. The mines, schools, and businesses, all close. Even the illegal activities of the Hob fizzle to a stop. When the scheduled delivery of tessera grain and oil is canceled, those unaffected are left with no choice but to quietly starve. 

In three months, district 12's population drops to less than a third of its size.

Though President Snow claims they are doing all that can be done, no doctors are sent in, or fancy capital medicine dropped. The message to District 12 is painfully clear. We have been abandoned to let this sickness run its course.

At first, no one thinks much of it. A few middle-aged miners already diagnosed with black lung are found dead one morning in late February. The next casualties are the usual suspects in any outbreak; a handful of senior Seam folk, a new merchant baby and mother that had a particularly difficult labour and birth. It's when our only surviving Victor, Haymitch Abernathy, dies two weeks after the first case is reported that people start to take notice. The next notable death is the mayor and his entire household staff three days later.

No one knew if it was in the air, the water, our food? Was it a genetic anomaly that killed strong reaping-age merchants-warm in their beds, while homeless and crippled Seam-beggers remained untouched? Gale had suspected it was the Capital that had sent the virus themselves; genetically altered to target those who have ever dared to besmirch President Snow's good name. 

He never lived to see if his paranoia was correct. Gale and the entire Hawthorn family die within 10 hours of each other on day thirty despite my mother and Prim's healing efforts. I ban Prim from leaving the house after that. She cried for days insisting she needed to help tend the sick, since no one else would. 

‘Its useless!’ I shout at her angerly. She couldn't save innocent little Posy or strong rebellious Gale; I won’t have her dying for anyone else. 

Citizens of 12 are eventually put under house arrest. Though most were too scared to venture out, I sneak into the forest daily to keep Prim and my mother fed. With no more school I stay out all day; hunting to excess the skinny animals that have just come out of their winter-long sleep. 

I know we scrape along better than most families, particularly in the Seam. Still a sense of urgency follows me through the woods. Like a dog on a scent, relentless. I have to keep going. Have to hunt more, gather more. I sobbed for half the morning the first time I came upon one of Gale's snares, but even those I checked and reset with religious vigilance. Maybe, I tell myself, with semi full bellies of fresh greens and meat we might escape unscathed. We might be ok. But no matter how long I stay out, or how full my game bag is each night- it's still not enough. Our candles burn low and what little milk Prim's goat was producing dries up. We eat our last flat loaf of tessera bread the day they start calling for bodies.

The surviving peacekeepers in voluminous, white hazmat suits begin a patrol up and down the streets in the Seam and Town, pulling a cart and calling for people to bring out their dead. A mass grave is foolishly dug in the meadow before an edict is made declaring bodies be burned instead. Something to do with contamination to the soil. Either way, my spot under the fence is compromised and my hunting comes to a horrible, screeching stop.

In lieu of the games, a master list is posted in the town square; the Capital’s last ditch effort to keep track of its dying populace. Every citizen young and old is listed alphabetically and those brave enough to venture out go to cross off the names of their deceased and search for their friends and neighbours still counted among the living. 

My own errand complete; I fruitlessly scan the list for names untouched in a sea of grey pencil scratches over black lettering. I know I'm stalling. But I can't go back home. Not yet. Instead I hover over my owe name and selfishly wonder what would happen if I put a line through there too. What would happen if I crawled under the fence and never came back? Would anyone notice one more name crossed off out of thousands? Probably not. 

But then I remember Prim's red-haunted eyes and the bedroom that reeks of fresh blood and death. 

I shake my head as if to clear it and, in my peripheries, spot a familiar figure wandering in the court yard. A man, well really still just a boy, his mop of blonde curls standing out against the grey ash in the air and the black, coal-dusted ground. 

Peeta Mellark. 

Against my will, I find my finger frantically skimming down the list of M’s. I suck in a breath when my chipped nail comes to a section of four names: Bailum, Bradox, Delilah, and Rye Mellark, all with a freshly drawn grey thin line through them. 

Oh no. 'Peeta.’ His name slips from my mouth. 

He must have heard me because just then his head shoots up; his face surprised as a lopsided grin slowly covers his handsome face. As he comes closer though, I can see it’s not his regular smile- I watched him at school enough to know. There’s something manic and forced, he eyes as blue as ever, are fuzzy and out of focus. 

‘Katniss,’ he breathes when he’s just a few feet away. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks so casually- as if this isn’t the first time we’ve spoken to each other before today.

‘The list’ I rasp, with a motion of my head and his smile quickly fades. 

‘Oh, right – yeah, yeah me too,’ he says, voice tinged with regret. He shifts uneasily on his feet and its then I notice the flour coated arms and mussed apron around his waist. Was he in the middle of making bread?

I know I should say something- tell him I’m sorry about his family. But the memory of burnt bread tossed to my skeletal form all those years ago comes thundering back and I’m hit with a wave of overwhelming guilt. I never did thank him and now its too late.

What was there to say? - Thank you for saving my family, I’m sorry I couldn’t save yours.

Instead I stand stupid and mute.

Peeta saves me once again.

'So when this is all over, will you bring me your squirrels?' 

'Squirrels?' I frown, incredulous.

'Yeah, squirrels,' he bobs his head. 'It's just, well, you always traded with my father. The town baker? I thought since I'm the only one left...the bakery is mine now so...'

He's not looking at me anymore, his eyes skim over the tops of our shoes. I study then too, trying desperately to get my tongue to work. 

'You know its funny. I was supposed to end up in the mines. Bradox was going to marry the grocers oldest daughter and Rye, he was next in line to...'

He barks out a laugh then, the sharpness causing us both to look up. His hand fists in his curls, pulling violently until they stand up on end. I shove mine deep in my pockets to keep from doing something unforgivable like smoothing it back down.

'But now... he and my mom were the last to go this morning and ...the bakery, its just me, so ...'

The tell-tale rattle of Peackeepers wagon approaching has Peeta trailing off. We both know its only a matter of minutes before we'll be forcefully escorted back to our homes.

'Katniss?' He looks so old suddenly, tired. 'What am I going to do?'


	2. Chapter 2

As I walk through the front door, I realize what a mistake it was bringing Peeta with me.  


My neck burns hot with embarrassment as I stop in my entryway and see my home for what it really is: a shack, with coal dust embedded in its slopping beams and patch-worked walls. The last of our tea leaves and half a rabbit comprise the food left in our cupboards. If that wasn't enough, there are only two beds for the three of us; my mother’s body still laying in one.  


Even still, something in my gut, more pressing and urgent than my shame, twists violently at the thought of sending Peeta back to his own house. I sneak a glance over my shoulder as he trudges a few paces behind up the porch steps. He's still flour streaked with a dirty apron wadded up under his arm. If I didn't know better, I could pretend he was finishing a regular shift at the bakery. The pinch of his brow and the hardness of his mouth are the only giveaway that he'd be coming home to a family of ghosts.  


'For the bread’, I tell myself, ‘because you owe him.’ Though I know deep down that's not precisely true.  


Peeta must not have sensed my hesitation, nearly colliding with my back before the sight of Prim kneeling by my mother’s body, quietly crying, stops him in his tracks.  


‘Katniss?’ he rasps in my ear. The scent of baked bread, flour, sugar, some unknown spice suddenly wafts up around me at his close proximity. Heat radiates off Peeta’s broad chest, breeching the few inches between us and permeating through my own thin t-shirt. A shiver wracks through me. For a second I wish I could turn and burrow into the cavern of his chest. Be swallowed up by his tantalizing scent and heat. Convince myself this isn't either of our lives; instead just some strange shared fever dream.  


Prim sniffles loudly and looks up, startled.  


‘I need your help,' is all the reply I can muster. 

I gently shoe Prim away, who after my reassuring nod, walks tentatively over to Peeta. He smiles sadly and extends his hand, ‘I’m Peeta. You must be Primrose.’ 

‘Prim’ she says with a sniff. I don’t hear the rest of their exchange but eventually Peeta places a large, gentle hand on the top of her shoulder and guides Prim to the kitchen. His eyes track my movements as they pass by the open door.  


A kernel of guilt nettles at me but I am quick to brush it aside.  


I take off mother’s slippers first (a strange indulgence from her past life as a merchant). Slowly slide her wedding ring off her purple finger next. I decide to leave her in her night gown. No point wasting a new dress that will fit Prim in a few years. I try not to look at her face- blue lips, dead eyes, the small trickle of blood that had leaked and since dried under her nose and ears. For funerals in the Seam, usually a close friend of the family might have come to help wash my mother and prepare her for burial. Hazel Hawthorne perhaps, but then she is dead too and of course the burden falls to me.  


When she is wrapped in a sheet, I call for Peeta who helps me carry her out to the front porch to await the next cart of bodies. I turn to go back when a warm palm stops me. I frown down at my arm, startled to be touched by someone other than Prim. Peeta drops my forearm as if I've burnt him and a takes a cautious step back.  


'Katniss- Katniss I'm so sorrý. I think I should leave now.'

'Peeta-' 

'No, god, I'm such an idiot,' he cuts me off, both his hands moving to violently pull the curls on the top of his head. 'I didn't think. When I saw you by the list, I didn't...I'm so sorry about your mother, Katniss. I know your family's different. It's not like mine, I'm sorry. I should go.'  


'Different, different as in Seam?' I accuse, my hackles instantly raised. 

What bothers me more than his presumption is that Peeta is right. My family is different; closer- bonded by love. At least used to be, back when my father was still alive. I wonder if he knows about my parents love story? How my mother defied the odds, loving my father enough to leave her life in the Merchant sector; to become the wife of a lowly coal miner instead.

Marriages for love are rare in twelve. More often than not, arranged marriages are made for merchant children from the time of their birth. A way to keep businesses thriving and in the family name. In the Seam it's not so different; the incentive being slightly better housing assignments and the tessera rations only your child's name on a slip of paper could provide. It's not uncommon to see a gaggle of olive-skinned, grey eyed, dark haired children trailing rounded-bellied mothers. From the outside, it's easy to see love matches as the rule in the Seam, not the exception. 

'What?! No, I would never- that's not what I meant, I...' Peeta seems to physically deflate; trailing off as he slumps down hard onto the bottom step. 'My mother is, or was...she wasn't like yours,' he tries again, as he pushes the heels of his palms roughly against his eye sockets. 'I'm usually much better with words,' he finally sighs, hanging his head.

Something about his dejected state cools my quick temper. 

It's possibly the worst kept secret in the district that the baker's shrew of a wife often sent her children to school with black eyes and broken bones that hadn't been set right. Her violent temper, her hatred for Seam folk were common knowledge around town. I'd experienced it first hand myself. 

A dark, twisted, slimy corner of my brain wonders if Peeta is secretly glad his mother is gone? That he can't or won't grieve her as a son should. Like how I should be grieving for my own. 

'Peeta, it's ok' I sooth, feeling guilty for my uncharitable thoughts. No one truely wishes their mother dead, no matter how terrible. 

I sit down one step above Peeta, wrapping my arms around my knees, unsure what else to say. Peeta, though adamant in his departure a moment ago, continues to sit with his head hung and his eyes closed. The quiet between us doesn't feel awkward or forced. We both sit unmoving for some time, the sun's slow progression overhead the only indication that life goes on. 

'In the history of Pamen, I never imagined this is what I'd have in common with Katniss Everdeen,' Peeta chuckles mirthless as he turns suddenly to glance at me over his shoulder.

The way he emphasizes my name, something like reverence behind the syllables, has me looking up from my knees. He must take my stare for confusion, which in part is true, so I'm unprepared for his next words.  


'We're both orphanes.'  


Oh.  


I hadn't realized until this moment that I already considered myself parentless the bleak days after my father death five years ago. When my mother took to her bed, refused to work or eat or bath. She ceased to be my parent the second day Prim and I had nothing but boiled water and mint leaves to eat. It was on the third day that Peeta threw me the bread. Took a beating from his mother for it too. I wonder whats worse: a mother who forgets to feed you or one who beats you for feeding others?  


I immediately hate myself for this line of thinking. I must be scowling because Peeta has turned three shades of pink in my silence and is pulling on his hair again. Nervous tic, I wonder. The sight has me drawing my eyes to the rest of his hair. Close up its really more wave than curl except for at the top. Its longer than I remember ever seeing it in school. Not that I was paying particular attention. It looks soft. I wonder if it'd smell like the rest of Peeta- like bakery bread and familar spice I can't quite put my finger on.

I shake my head to clear it of these strange thoughts. 

'Katniss, I'm sorry I-' 

'Come on,' it's my turn to interrupt as I stand and walk back to my door, 'you need to clean up before dinner.'  


‘Is Peeta here to stay?’ Prim whispers a little while later as I brew tea. I nod but don’t elaborate, fearful Peeta will walk out of the bathroom at any moment. 'His family?'  


I shake my head no. 

Prim doesn’t ask any more questions after that. Its times like these that I wonder if my little sister is highly perceptive and wise beyond her years or just willfully ignorant.

When Peeta emerges he is flour free, his forearms scrubbed pink so that the many tiny burn marks and blonde hairs stand out against his skin. I find my eyes drawn to them as he settles his elbows on the table and accepts the mug that was exclusively our mothers not even 12 hours ago. No one says much of anything as we gradually drain our cups of weak tea. I hadn’t thought to ask how he likes it prepared, but Peeta doesn’t seem to mind the lack of sugar.  


After dishes are washed and fresh linens placed on my mother’s bed, we all give into the weight and fatigue of grief and go to bed before its even dark.  


Prim and I agree to take our mothers double bed but Peeta insists on spending the night on the couch. The cushions sag and coal dust has permeated the thread-bear fibers but Peeta only asks for a blanket before curling onto his side, his face hidden from view.  


Many hours later, after Prim had left me to crawl into our mother’s empty bed (as was her habit when she was upset), that I hear muffled sobs coming from the other room. I try to ignore it, bringing the pillow up over my ears.  


He deserves the privacy to grieve. I should at least give him that.  


Something though gnaws at my gut and my mothers bloody, lifeless face swims behind my closed eyes as I will myself to go to sleep.  


.  


A particularly loud sniffle comes from the living room some time later and I find myself huffing in exasperation as I pad out of bed. 

‘Katniss?’ its my name on his lips for what feels the millionth time tonight; a question, a plea, an apology, when I touch his shoulder in the dark.  


I grab Peeta’s arm and pull him to his feet. He swipes roughly at his face and wet eyes, mumbling apologies the whole time I lead him away. He must think I meant to throw him out because he pauses and stumbles in confusion as I veer us toward the bedroom instead of the front door. 

Prim is still sound asleep in my mother’s bed. I lay down across the way in our own small double and lift the corn of my quilt in silent invitation. Peeta’s red rimmed eyes shift uneasily about the room. First to Prim, then to the blankets on the bed, the floor, back to Prim and finally to my face.  


I’m not certain what he see’s through the semi darkness of the night but it must be enough because Peeta eventually climbs in next to me. I don’t bother trying to make space. As soon as Peeta is settled I roll over and carefully shift his head onto my shoulder. He goes stiff for a moment before his body gives in and fully sags into the mattress. The tears come shortly after; turning from a light sprinkling on my sleep shirt to full body-wrecking sobs. They sound so wet and forceful I wonder if they’ll wake up Prim but she never stirs.  


Finally, I let my own quiet whimpers escape; selfishly camouflaged by the sound of Peeta’s own grief. I let my tears disappear into his thick mop of blonde curls and massage them away with my lithe fingers; using gentle methodic strokes like how my father used to do to me long ago.  


Eventually Peeta quiets and his head falls further to my chest. His arms become dead weight around my waist but I don’t move away.  


It’s for the bread, because you owe him- I tell myself.  
But part of me that’s selfish and small says its because I need the comforting too. 

Peeta is so warm and solid and alive in my arms. I want to keep it this way forever.

Reminants of something akin to disappointment greet me when I wake later in the night. My sleepshirt bone dry, alone in my bed, as soft rhythmic snores come from the couch. 


End file.
